Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
T he morning after, I’d expected to wake with a pounding hangover. But instead of feeling like my forehead is packed with boulders, I feel cleansed, like the evening and rest washed off a coarse layer of rigidity I didn’t even know encased me. Trouble is, I sense its rebuilding as soon as I step foot on the terrace.
On the far right side of the balconied patio, two women enjoy their breakfast inside a glass birdcage that resembles a gazebo. It’s Angela, dressed to the nines in her finest 8 a.m. satin summer dress. The woman beside her looks to be an alter ego, boasting a pixie cut, chunky dangling earrings, and a multicolored tunic. Angela drops in “Jamie” a few times. My weak comprehension for French can barely decipher the essence of their conversation.
“Je ne sais pas ce qu’il fait. Il doit être plus sérieux. Il est temps de grandir,” Angela asserts herself, ripping through a croissant. She must be talking about Jamie. She said something similar to him yesterday when I had just finished tending to Milo’s splinter.
The bohemian woman at the table rests her chin in her palms and shrugs. “Il trouve son chemin.”
“Il appartient à Chessley Enterprises,” Angela says, swatting her jam knife in the air.
“Dit qui?” the other woman challenges. Maybe she’s not so keen on Jamie following in his father’s footsteps.
“Estelle,” Angela says, resting her wrists on the table and searching her friend’s eyes for a more concurring comment.
“Je voulais juste remuer les choses,” the woman replies with a grin. Her coral lipstick doesn’t even smear onto one tooth.
I watch them long enough to see Angela’s genuine laughter and intimacy with a close friend. But, as if she smells me, her eyes immediately shift to my figure decked out in “Shake Your Coconuts” pajama bottoms. Sighing back into her chair, Angela waves me over and points to a seat beside her friend.
“Estelle, this is Kat.”
“Ah,” Estelle says. “Wonderful to meet you. Angela’s told me all about you.”
All about me? She hardly knows me. I shudder thinking of what Angela must’ve spouted to this woman.
“Here,” Estelle says, grabbing the basket of croissants. “Have some breakfast. Oh, and try that raspberry preserve. From the farmer’s market. Do you like coffee? Tea?” Estelle holds up pots of both before setting them down and taking a bowl of chopped fruit and spooning the contents onto my plate. “Have some pears, too. Amazing.”
“Before you dig in,” Angela interrupts. “Some instructions for the kids.”
She slides me a folder with neatly typed-up pamphlets of each kid’s obligations and a master calendar to keep it all straight. Tennis practices, equestrian lessons, and pharmacy orders, among others. Though the family is on “holiday,” Angela occasionally has to handle something for the fashion line, and Nicholas really only pauses work between Christmas and New Year’s.
“You should take them to the Matisse museum. I got caught up there last night. Docent duties,” Estelle says, sipping her espresso. “Why I missed your welcome dinner.”
“ My welcome dinner?”
Angela creases a volume of Vogue rather aggressively and sets it on the table. “Well, Estelle,” she says, standing up. “I think we’d better get a move on to the vineyard, hmm? And remember, Kat, I take my rules very seriously. All of them.”
Estelle nods my way and wishes me well. Angela strides across the patio without so much as an “au revoir,” but her unblinking eyes don’t separate from my own until she’s inside the mansion again.
Could she be any more suspicious? I’m not out to steal her diamond earrings... or her eldest son.
For a few moments, the only sound is of the crashing waves miles below. I crunch through the flaky, buttery croissant and surrender to a few calm seconds of bliss before Manon, Milo, and Josie come storming through the breakfast area. Guess this is my life now.
* * *
Perhaps it was a bit bold of me to assume I’d be just fine in acclimating to the family atmosphere, to the culture, to the language. I figured my relatively well-stamped passport would have prepared me well enough. This week, however, I found out I’m not immune to touristy fumbles, which Manon devoured as if more entertaining than any song from a Twice album.
In France, there are quite a few erreurs to make. Like not saying bonjour or bonsoir to shop owners upon entering. None of that bow your head while you browse and hope the cashier doesn’t make eye contact. Here, chin up, greet the human running the show, and chug along. And another note, if you ever miss breakfast, do not squish a banana into your bag and devour it in the middle of the street unless you’re prepared to get nasty scoffs tossed your way. Meals here are sacred and shouldn’t be a second thought.
Regardless of my touristy fumbles, I’m rather proud of getting somewhat into a morning routine with the kids with only minimal help from Sylvie. It’s like clockwork. A seven-minute temper tantrum from Milo and Josie about wanting to sleep in before they rise like zombies and reluctantly brush their teeth. Manon is usually good about getting herself dressed in time. She’s more mature than I initially gave her credit for.
Breakfast is another ordeal, but I’m getting the hang of it. Milo only likes eggs with orange slices in the morning. Josie, nearly burnt toast with orange marmalade. Manon pretty much eats anything without dairy, given her severe intolerance to it. Sylvie helps with breakfast so long as I take the grocery shopping, which I don’t find disagreeable at all. Supermarkets abroad always give me a strange high from perusing local produce to out-of-the-ordinary potato chip flavors.
I rely on Antoine to be our main driver, and once the kids are dropped at their lessons and classes, I can do as I please. Angela suggests I use that time to conjure up methods for handling the kids better, given that whenever she happens to be around, the kids are on their worst behavior. It’s usually after we return from their scheduled activities. Hungry, tired, and irritated doesn’t set the groundwork for the siblings to get along.
I’ve never been fired in my life. But I feel like I’m skirting that line now more than ever with Angela breathing down my neck and Manon determined to kick me to the curb.
After that snarky little “joke” about Angela spying on an old assistant, I can’t help but look over my shoulder every five minutes. One wrong move and out I go.
It’s only been a week, but I feel like I’ve been here an eternity already. I’d only seen Nick, as he asked me to call him, a handful of times. His client calls often require him to make short trips across the country and Europe. He and Jamie just got back from the Netherlands yesterday. And if I thought Jamie had a wall up around him before, it’s gotten five feet thicker.
On the night of their return, as I was closing out my reading session on the moonlit terrace, I overheard the tail end of a disgruntled conversation in the villa’s library.
“Don’t even think about it. Leave her alone,” Nick had said. “Your actions have consequences, Jamie.”
“What do my choices really have to do with you?” Jamie’s voice was a screeching whisper.
“James. You know.” Nick walked out on Jamie then and there.
Without a moment to dissect my eavesdropped morsels, I shuffled up the secret kitchen staircase and into my room ever so quietly as to not be seen or heard.
But what was the warning about? Leave who alone? Me?
The Jamie at the picnic denied his women, wine, and song act. But I haven’t known him long enough to validate if there’s complete truth to that. Clearly, Nick isn’t convinced either. Even if Jamie ever feels some type of way about me, would I be just another girl whose name he’ll forget the second someone else comes along?
I don’t know why I entertain such delusions. It’s clear whatever vibe I had felt between us in the Cave on that first day has entirely evaporated.
Before Jamie and Nick left for Amsterdam, I hadn’t seen much of Jamie, except that time at breakfast when he gave Manon a head tousle before heading out the door without even a glance in my direction, erasing any semblance of our budding repertoire. Now that he’s back in town, is it wrong to assume he’s actually avoiding me? I get he doesn’t want to be too talkative when Angela’s around, but what happened to those British manners?
This is why I don’t let myself get attached. Okay, too attached. To be honest, I feel rejected by a guy I never even made a play at.
He’s twenty-six and has most definitely been around the block. I’m almost twenty-three and still waiting to cross the street.
But it doesn’t matter, really. I didn’t come here to have a fling.
I know what brought me here. Wine. Damn red wine. And if my hopefully soon-to-be boss wasn’t the kids’ godfather, I’d be on the next flight back to Boston, playing the “leaving for personal reasons” card.
In the meantime, it’s like mission impossible. Don’t quit, and don’t get fired.
But so long as I have to wait out the summer, I can’t deny that I’m in a breathtaking place, and I promise myself not to wallow my free time away in self-pity. I’m gonna see the riviera for all that it has to offer, starting with enjoying lunch under an awning at a café in Nice. With the kids at painting class in their “aunt” Estelle’s apartment up the street, it’s my turn to see what makes this neighboring city so alluring.
During the twenty-minute car ride from the green slopes of èze, I had made mental notes of the crêperies and soap shops lining the turquoise waters. Its naturally high tourist levels make me feel a little less alone when I’m not the only one questioning why there’s no ice in the glass of water I asked for. Fortunately, Manon, in a rare moment of kindness, implied to specifically request water from the tap if I don’t want a bottle of sparkling to be brought out when I ask for de l'eau.
From my umbrella-shaded table, I purvey the scenery and orchestral summer frenzy. The city has few green spaces. It’s mostly apartment buildings and shops towering over one another, but it’s not suffocating. It’s bright and airy with a whiff of salt water and coffee.
The streets bustle with tourists and locals making their way to the beach down the street. There’s a mixture of local frustration with some ignorant visitors who don’t care to learn an ounce of French and a reluctant acceptance that they live in a vacationland.
Clothing, makeup, and grocery stores embed a few English translations below their French signage. It’s the evolution from resisting the encroaching language to a general succumbing. Still, I think the locals have a right to be firm in their hesitation. Language ties to the soul of the culture. And French, it’s always been one that’s transfixed me. In the past week, while I’ve tackled a few more phrases and words to help me get by in town and with the kids, I’m eager to learn more. I could practice with the millions of French natives buzzing around me, but I resolve to the privacy of my language-learning apps. Duo, the Duolingo owl, doesn’t laugh when I mix up cucumbers with constipation .
I’m halfway into my daze when someone taps my shoulder. Chills race up my spine. I could’ve sworn I just heard the whirring flutter of a camera lens shuttering.
When I turn around I see Emi. I peek over her shoulders. No camera or spy in sight. Maybe the summer heat is getting to me.
Her head held high and face lit up, Emi adjusts the brim of her straw sun hat and shines a smile. In her sundress and wedges, she looks fit to be on the cover of Vogue . She greets me with la bise, the double cheek kiss.
“Minou,” she says in a soft voice, matching the murmuring tones of diners chattering around us. Minou means kitty. It’s her nickname for me.
“Ni?oise salade, s’il vous pla?t,” she says to the waiter as she pulls out a chair, taking a seat and turning to me. “I’ve missed you. We really should find the time to see each other more. How are the kids?”
“Oh, well, you know.” I raise my eyebrows, and Emi can only chuckle.
“They’re good ones, really.” Emi smiles as she butters her bread. “How’s Jamie?”
What does she mean by that? How should I know? Did Angela ask her to say that?
My turbulent tirade of thoughts muddle my answer. “I, um. I don’t... I’m not sure. Do... Do you know how he is?”
“Uh, no,” Emi says. “Why I asked you.” The smile lifting in her cheeks tells me she detects the red in mine.
“Haven’t seen him much.” I grab a piece of bread and start cutting it with my knife. Emi’s hand stops my back-and-forth motion.
“Like this,” she says, picking up a piece and tearing it in two with her hands. She lifts her silverware. “For the meal.”
“Can you follow me around and tell me all my faux pas?”
“You’re doing better than most of the au pairs they’ve had. Here, trying to adapt is appreciated more than you think.”
We chat more about the almost-always-sunny weather, top attractions in the area, and some of the foods I apparently need to try. I tear a piece of paper out of my notebook for her to use.
“What’s that?” She points to the journal I’m hastily stuffing in my bag.
“Nothing.” The pang in my stomach hits differently this time.
“I have a diary too,” she says.
“It’s not a diary. I-I like to take notes of my surroundings.” Gosh that sounds creepy.
Emi’s inviting eyes make me feel safe enough to divulge a bit more. How the sensory details bring me to the moment itself. Like a recorded book of inspirations.
As Emi nods encouragingly, she takes a slow sip of her café au lait. A gentle sea breeze sweeps through the streets and ever so slightly rattles my coffee cup and saucer. The madeleine beside it nearly blows away, but I rescue it before it goes flying. Yet, I can’t save my napkin, which goes soaring to my right. When I bend over to pick it up, a strong, tanned hand decorated in fine fashion rings meets the napkin on the stone patio. A tall, gray-eyed man at least a few years older who looks like he’s just walked out of a Louis Vuitton factory, shines a half smile. He’s coated in the finest cologne France has to offer.
“Bonjour, Mademoiselle,” he says, standing up and folding my napkin. “On devrait t’arrêter pour excès de beauté sur la voie publique.” The way the canvas awning blocks the sunlight above us and his cream and beige outfit billows in the breeze, he’s glowing. But of course, and most especially when an angelic man stands before me, my tongue decides not to touch base with my brain.
“Je ne...”
Crap! What’s the rest?
“Je ne parle pas... beaucoup le fran?ais,” I say with a butchered accent and an awkward smile, hoping to goodness there’s no tuna or egg wedged in my teeth.
Emi leans toward the man and introduces us both. Fortunately, he knows English and switches for my comfort. Lucky me. He pulls out a chair that Emi invites him to take.
“He was saying that you should be arrested for showing so much beauty in public,” she whispers not so subtly to me.
Out of the corner of my eye, his debonair, bright grin gives me chills.
“What a pickup line,” I say, taking a sip of coffee.
Is that a flirtatious edge I feel coming on?
“What, it didn’t work?” he says. His teeth seem even whiter against his tan skin.
“Damien,” the mystery man introduces himself—pronounced dah-mi-uh(n). Ah yes, the silent “n” that’s more like a suggestion.
When Emi excuses herself to go to the restroom, even though she had just gone five minutes before, my abdomen quivers, and I rub the ends of my napkin to send the energy somewhere else.
“So, um, do you come to Nice a lot? I mean, well of course you do, you probably live here. Or, wait, do you live here? Where are you from?” I bite my lip to stop the rambling, but Damien appears amused.
He leans his elbow back on the seat rest, hardly creasing his beige blazer. “I’m from Antibes. Just a few kilometers away. Close to Cannes.”
“Have you ever been to the film festival?”
“Mhm, I walked the red carpet too.”
My voice drops its shaky nerves. “Really?”
He nods. “An actress had asked me to be her date.”
“Oh.” Because I guess that’s regular around here?
“But we waited for hours for the screenings to start. By the end, we just got drunk at the bar and left early.”
“It wasn’t worth it to stay?”
Damien shakes his head and takes a sip of water before changing the subject to my reasoning for sitting in a café along the French Riviera. I give him the CliffsNotes version of how and why I happened here.
“I’m au pairing for a family in èze.”
He inhales deeply through his nostrils. “Don’t tell me. The Chessleys?”
“You know them.”
Tracing the rim of a glass, Damien nods. “I’ve had the unfortunate pleasure of crossing paths with Jamie a time or two. But that’s in the past.”
Emi returns to her seat, fluttering her napkin over her lap and interrupting with, “Damien, before you got here, Kat was just saying how she’d love for someone to show her the area.”
A grin spreads over his face. “That so? Well, Kat, would you like to join me in Monte Carlo next Saturday for a charity gala? I’ve got an extra ticket. And you really shouldn’t miss it.”
“I-I, um... I don’t...” I catch a glimpse of Emi’s encouraging smile. “I guess so. Oui.”
“Merveilleux,” Damien says, rubbing his palms together. I bite my lip.
“Bien. Pick her up at six,” Emi orders.
“Oui. La villa Chessley,” he adds. His phone blitzes awake, and he shuffles out of his chair. “Ah. Désolé. Sorry, I’ve got to get going.”
Damien takes my hand, pecks it, and places it back in an ensuing pool of sweat on the white tablecloth. “Enchantée, Kat.” He says goodbye to Emi, but with less fanfare. Apparently, I’ve lost my tact for words, if I ever had any, and can only manage to nod helplessly.
“Looking forward to seeing more of you,” he says with a final wave as he strides back into the street.
For a good half hour, Emi pokes at my giddiness, and I so gladly let her. We decide to take a long walk from Nice’s city center back to residential èze before we surrender to the cobblestone streets of its old town. The smell of flower bushels wrapped in brown paper tempt my already heightened spirits as we make our way to the wine shop for a quick hello to Emi’s parents.
Stone arches adorned with climbing flower vines form tunnels over the narrow, inclined streets. Someone strides down the stony walkway, catching my eye. I can tell by his gait and the toned arms that it’s him. Jamie.
Emi sees him too and is about to wave when I press on her elbow. To my right, another presence catches my attention. Only she would still wear the clickety-clackety heels in this completely stiletto-averse terrain. Her commanding voice doesn’t cascade beyond a muffle as she says goodbye to Antoine and Marie at the wine store.
I nudge my head and Emi catches on. Two seconds later, she’s hustling to stall Angela at the store a bit longer, and I set off toward the steps to get Jamie out of sight.
When he sees me, his emerald eyes flicker with a burst of curiosity that hardens to unnecessary coolness.
“What are you doing here? Where are the kids?”
“They’re fine. Come on.” I press my hand against his forearm and move back up the cobblestone hill.
“Hey, I gotta go to the Cave.” He’s dressed in his chef whites.
“No, you don’t. Your mom’s there.”
“What?”
Angela’s voice gets louder as she insists on heading out of the Cave. Jamie can hear her now. His dropped jaw tells me so.
Without much thought, we quickly shuffle into the closest shop. The unlocked seafoam-green door leads us into a quiet, vacant bookstore. My knees squeeze against my jeans as we kneel to the floor below the windowsill to peek outside.
Angela struts down the cobblestones and faces the shop where Jamie and I are hiding. She tilts her head, not one hair-sprayed auburn curl falling out of place. Instead of investigating, she shakes her head and strides toward the car park at the bottom of the village.
“What the bloody hell,” Jamie mumbles to himself, untying his apron. “She hasn’t been down here since she and dad bought the house.”
“When was that?”
“Thirty years ago.” Jamie stands and holds out a hand. But I’m already halfway off the ground. Still, it doesn’t stop me from awkwardly taking it even when there’s no need for balance. Thankfully, my chuckle sparks his own, and the tension brushes off.
In a few milliseconds of silence, my eyes meet his, and the coolness from the past few weeks evaporates. Only about a foot separates us, and I can feel his body heat unintentionally encroaching on mine. He’s just naturally really hot. I tear my gaze away and bumble around the shop, creaking the floorboards.
Jamie does the same, though I’m not sure why he hasn’t just bolted back to work at this point. He’s made it clear that he’s not looking to get involved. And neither am I.
A few rays of sunlight pour in through the smudged windows, illuminating the clouds of dust swirling in the air and caking on the empty bookshelves. Cardboard boxes filled with books from poetry volumes to mystery novels are scattered around the wooden tables. Toward the back, a rickety staircase leads to a horseshoe balcony and loft stocked with more reads. In its glory days, this place must’ve been a treasure trove.
I feel a pair of eyes on me as I admire the architecture and the atmosphere of a store that once was. I sharply turn around, catching Jamie, with an open cookbook in hand.
“Amazing, isn’t it?” His tone is genuine, and I immediately feel guilty for mentally accusing him of otherwise.
“Mmm,” I say, nodding. “If this place were functioning, I’d spend hours here.” I mention a sampling of my favorite genres. A blend of classic literature, contemporary, and anything on space or world travel. “I practically lived at the library. Used to read these back to front,” I say, picking up a guidebook on the Mediterranean coast collecting a thick layer of dust mites. I flip through wafer-thin pages peppered with hotels, attractions, and language tips.
“We’re kindred spirits, then. Because I was a few aisles down checking out these,” Jamie says, lifting the French pastry volume splayed in his hands. “And anything Greek philosophy. They knew their shit.”
A smile creeps along my face as I picture it. A lanky 4’8” nine-year-old with comic books tucked under one arm, an encyclopedia of chocolate-based recipes, and a Socrates biography in the other. Now, mid-twenties, roughly six foot, and he’s still intoxicated. My stomach sinks for him, wondering what his fate will be once he starts working at Chessley Enterprises full time.
“But as for fiction,” he says, slicking his fingers back through his hair. “I’m more of a movie buff.”
A smile paints my face. We geek out over some favorite films. Him: Castaway , 8 Mile , My Cousin Vinny. Me: Star Wars , Mamma Mia , Forrest Gump .
“I’m guessing Apollo 13 is in there too?” he says coyly.
“You guessed right.”
“A superfan, then. Sure you didn’t go to school for this?”
Before I can catch myself doing it, a laughing scoff tumbles out, as if convincing myself that I’m completely happy with the decision of going the business school route. “I wish,” I mumble so softly that Jamie’s head doesn’t turn.
My phone chirps incessantly inside my bag. In my haphazard attempt to retrieve it, I ever so elegantly manage to spill out half of my belongings. My journal included.
Jamie rushes to help me recover everything. He picks up the notebook, which I had labeled with a “Write Like You Mean It” sticker.
He lifts the leather journal. “So, you’re a writer?”
I reach underneath a table for my lost strawberry ChapStick. “Um, no, well, not exactly.”
“But you write,” Jamie underscores.
“Well... yeah,” I strain as I plunge my arm farther underneath the wood siding. “Sort of.”
“Then, you’re a writer.”
I sigh. Well, I’m not exactly penning the next great American novel. More like a few documentary treatments and an attempt at crafting novellas out of select study abroad escapades.
My fingers locate the ChapStick’s cool plastic tube. I press back onto my knees. “It doesn’t work like that.”
“Doesn’t it?”
“Does heating up oatmeal make me a chef?” I retort coolly. I’m not in the mood to go into it with him anymore, so I politely, but forcefully, request my journal back. He concedes and places it in my outstretched hands, while I swallow my embarrassment through a clenched throat.
A voice outside the window steals our attention. Leaving Jamie on the ground, I quickly stand and brush the stone floor’s residue off my pant knees.
“Damien,” I say with a perky lift in my voice. My, with his sky-blue button-up and linen slacks, he’s looking fit for a Dolce & Gabbana photo shoot. I’m about to gather my bag and head out the door to “bump” into him, but he disappears into the shady cobblestone alley that leads to the car park.
“How do you know...” Jamie trails off. “So that’s your type?”
I scoff, and my eyelids go to thin slits.
Before I can retort, Jamie shakes his head and flips through another cookbook, mumbling. “I didn’t peg you as a girl who’d like guys like him.”
“And what’s that supposed to mean?” I face Jamie.
He shuts the cookbook and turns away. “I shouldn’t get involved.”
But now he’s opened a can of worms that I’d like to know more about.
“Hold on. So you know Damien?”
“Yeah,” he says and can’t help but add, “the less you know him, the better.”
“Oh really?” I cross my arms over my chest. “I’m old enough to decide who to hang out with, thank you very much.”
“Hey, I’m just looking out for you.”
“Oh, like you really care?” I want to add, “when you don’t even pay me any mind... or your family for that matter?” but I hold my tongue.
Jamie’s nostrils flare, and he steps closer to me. “Of course I...” There’s a fire in his eyes. “Kat.” His voice softens. “I... I can’t show you...”
“Why not?” I challenge him, taking a step closer. I feel the heat of his body inches away.
“You know why not...”
Angela. A deep breath swells in my lungs. Jamie looks away. I have to peel my searing focus from him.
I peek at my phone and realize how late I’m going to be picking up the kids from Estelle’s. As we leave the bookshop, bashing shoulders through the entry door, we steal one more glance. His eyes are warm and green. But the momentary warmth freezes over in seconds.
“I shouldn’t be here,” he says, swallowing and tearing his eyes away. He promptly starts storming up the street toward the Chateau Vigne d’Argent, but pauses his strides. Without turning around, he says, “Kat. Don’t see Damien, okay?”
I cross my arms. “Why’s that?”
“Just don’t, okay?”
“I think you should get back to work,” I say, spinning around and thumping down the street toward the car park for Antoine’s ride, resisting the urge to look back at Jamie. I don’t hear his scuffing footsteps, so I assume he’s standing firm in place where I left him.
Once in the car, the entire way back to Nice, Jamie’s words linger in my mind.
Does he find it amusing to challenge me? How can he sit on his high horse and question me like that when he’s the biggest sneak in his family? And what’s with him and Damien?
And the second that frozen exterior of his begins to thaw, he sticks it right back into the blast chiller. I get that he’s trying to keep our interactions on the down low so Angela doesn’t suspect anything. If nothing else, his maturity and care in making sure I don’t get fired is part of why I feel so magnetized to him. Still, if he’s gonna be cold out of obligation, I’d prefer he stay consistent in it, rather than inadvertently toying with my feelings.